


Some Things You Can't Plan For

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, episode-related AU, what if felicity's crazy save-napping plan got them out of nanda parbat?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: What if Felicity's audacious, desperate attempt to save-nap Oliver actually worked, for the most part? <b>Spoilers through 3x20</b>. A series of stories in this save-napping 'verse; each chapter is self-contained and complete when posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oliver awakens to a world gone slightly mad

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently a single scene; additional moments from this 'verse will be added as I write them, exploring the fallout from Felicity's decision.

Oliver slowly resurfaces, his thoughts sluggish, his head pounding. He can’t open his eyes yet, but he can feel the thrum of engines, hear familiar voices arguing. Loudly. 

He’s been drugged.

The realization makes him panic. Fueled by a rush of adrenaline, he staggers to his feet, arms up defensively, mind reeling to assimilate, categorize, identify threats.

Plane. From the whine of the engines and the nose-up attitude of the jet, it’s ascending. He’s on Palmer’s plane and-- 

Felicity, Diggle, and Thea are frozen in place, watching him carefully. Thea’s expression is clouded with confusion, and she’s listing a little sideways in her seat. Diggle and Felicity were clearly facing off moments ago -- they’re standing at cross-purposes, Diggle’s arms crossed in disapproval while Felicity... Felicity looks panicked, her face tear-streaked.

And Oliver remembers. He remembers _everything_ \-- Thea’s death and resurrection, his awful deal with the devil, hours of bliss with Felicity, and then--

Eyes wide, he locks onto Felicity. “Felicity, what--?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, her entire body rigid with tension. When she takes a step towards him, she limps, and Oliver’s gaze sweeps her body, honing in on the blood-stained rip in her jeans, just above her knee. “It’s fine,” she says, waving off his concern. “We couldn’t-- _I_ couldn’t leave you. It was my call, so please don’t be mad at them.” Her hands are shaking as she reaches out to him, but she maintains her distance, letting her arms drop back to her sides before wrapping them around herself protectively.

Oliver doesn’t know what this strange distance from Felicity means yet, and he’s still too concerned about their immediate safety to focus on it. Because his head is pounding from the drugs and his body is tense with anxiety and he knows they were in Nanda Parbat but now they’re en route... _somewhere_ and-- “You drugged me,” he says, working his way through the events, reordering things into a narrative he can follow. His gaze shifts to Diggle, “And-- you carried me out?”

Diggle nods, jaw tight. And Oliver knows just from that reaction that Diggle hadn’t been a part of some plan cooked up by the team. This was all Felicity. The realization both warms him, because his genius spitfire somehow outsmarted the League and got him out of Nanda Parbat, and utterly _terrifies_ him, because Felicity has just made Oliver break his deal with Ra’s al Ghul.

And the fallout from that...

Oliver rubs his hands over his face, trying to imagine what Ra’s will do to avenge this kind of betrayal. They can’t go home, maybe not ever. And not just him, but everyone who’s known to Ra’s as a friend of Oliver Queen. The implications are staggering, but he can’t go down that rabbithole until he’s sure everyone is safe in the near term. 

He looks to Thea, who hasn’t made a move to get up, and hasn’t said anything. This uncharacteristic willingness to stay on the sidelines worries him. “You’re okay?”

She nods, clearly not quite following everything that’s going on around her. “I-- I thought you were dead.”

Oliver’s still a little unsteady, he can still feel the artificial lethargy in his limbs, but he moves to Thea’s side. Gently, he pulls her to her feet and hugs her tight. “I’m okay,” he says, and he’s not even sure if she’s talking about the Gambit again, or the events of tonight. “We’re okay.”

“I think,” she starts, then stops on a sob.

“What?” Oliver urges, and he’s still cherishing the fact that she’s alive and breathing in his arms right now, no matter what hell Ra’s tries to rain down upon them for Felicity’s decision. “Thea?”

Thea pulls away, falls back into her seat, her movements uncoordinated. “I think Malcolm’s dead.” She sounds heartsick and angry, and Oliver wishes there was something he could say, something to make things better. 

Instead, Oliver looks to Diggle for an explanation.

“We don’t know, man,” Diggle admits. “He covered the last bit of our escape because Felicity got--” 

Felicity makes a noise of distress, and Oliver’s gaze snaps to her. She’s looking at the floor.

“Malcolm,” Diggle continues, drawing Oliver’s attention back, “told us to wait no more than ten minutes before takeoff.” Diggle glances to Felicity, then adds, “We waited twelve, but...”

“It’s my fault,” Felicity adds quietly. She’s got her arms crossed tightly, and while Oliver wasn’t looking, she backed up, moved away from them slightly. Her head is angled down, her hair partially obscuring her face. “I upended everyone else’s life to save yours, Oliver, and I think you know how I feel about Malcolm Merlyn, but I didn’t mean to cause his death. I just--” Her voice breaks on a sob.

Oliver steps towards her but she wards him off with one hand up. After everything they shared, the defensiveness of her gesture guts him. He aches to comfort her. He doesn’t understand the physical distance Felicity is maintaining, but he doesn’t know how to ask about it with an audience. “Felicity,” he says, beseeching. “Can I--”

“John,” she says, looking at their friend with the most heartbreaking expression of guilt on her face, “I didn’t think about what this would mean for you and Lyla and Sara.” She swipes angrily at the tears on her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t make this up to you, but I have documents, money, new identities for you three. I can help set you up--”

“Felicity,” Diggle interrupts, stepping forward and gently touching her biceps to ground her. “Listen to me. Lyla and I have had bugout plans for years. She and Sara are already out of the house. They’re making their way to a predetermined safe house.”

“But I--”

“I understand, Felicity,” Diggle says. “I would’ve done the same to get Lyla out of danger.” And then he pulls her into a hug, but she doesn’t reciprocate, just stands rigidly in his embrace. When Diggle eases back, he ducks his head, forcing eye contact. “Can I patch you up now?”

“What happened?” Oliver demands, looking once more at the blood on her jeans.

“I’m fine,” she answers, even as Diggle says, “She got hit with an arrow; we got the shaft out for expediency, but the wound needs to be treated.”

“What?” Oliver is standing inches from Felicity before he realizes he’s moved, his trembling hands tracing down her arms, urging her closer. When she responds, uncrossing her arms, he tangles their fingers together and squeezes, silently begging her to meet his gaze. “Felicity.” 

She looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with tears. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I couldn’t--” She stops, lips pressed together. After a deep, calming breath, she says, “I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me after I drugged you. I just-- I panicked.” She shrugs, a helpless little smile on her lips. “I couldn’t lose you.”

Oliver can’t help it. He just-- he _has_ to kiss her. He slides a hand around her back, up to the nape of her neck and leans in. Her eyes go very wide, and then she pushes up on her toes, her arms wrapping around his neck as she kisses him back. 

He knows it’s too much, entirely too revealing considering his sister and Diggle are mere feet away from them, but things are happening too fast and she’s so upset and uncertain and he just-- he _needs_ this. _They_ need this connection, this affirmation.

So he gives himself over to it, for just a few moments longer, before pulling back, then pressing several quick, chaste kisses to her lips. “Felicity.”

“I’m just so tired of saying goodbye to you, Oliver,” she whispers. 

“I understand,” he answers just as softly, his grip on her tightening for just a moment. “I would never have risked the safety of any of you,” he loosens his grip on her, turning to include a wide-eyed Thea and a rather smug Diggle in the conversation, “just to save my own skin.” He turns his gaze back to Felicity, lets her see everything he’s feeling. “But thank you. I love you all the more for it.”

For once, Felicity seems at a loss for words, and even in this strange, dangerous situation, Oliver finds himself grinning at her. She just makes him so much happier. 

“So,” Diggle drawls, “that explains a lot.”

“Wait, it does?” Thea asks. “I didn’t-- you guys are together?”

Oliver doesn’t break Felicity’s gaze. “Yes,” he says, and he has never been more certain of anything in his life, “we are.” 

“Is that a new development?” Thea demands, and despite the intrusiveness of her questions, Oliver really is happy to hear her sounding more like herself.

“Not now, Speedy,” he warns, rubbing a hand along Felicity’s spine. “Can I look at your leg?”

She gives him a shy smile. “Okay.”

He scoops her up, despite her protests, and carries her to the small hospital bed near the back of the plane that they’d used to transport Thea. Diggle follows behind, pulling the first aid supplies from the overhead compartment as Oliver helps Felicity ease her jeans down past her knees. 

She hops onto the bed with a little groan, and Oliver is about to ask if there are any other injuries when he sees three small bruises on her thigh. Bruises right where he was gripping her earlier. Bruises that look suspiciously like finger marks. 

His gaze snaps up to hers, and she’s blushing a little, her breathing just a bit unsteady as an unspoken remembrance of _before_ crackles between them. Then she smiles, a promise of more later, and Oliver has to turn away before he does something completely inappropriate.

Diggle is standing entirely too close, pinning him with a knowing look. “You got this?” he asks, and there are layers upon layers of meaning in those three words.

Oliver straightens a bit, Felicity’s hand in his, and nods. “I’ll be careful,” he promises solemnly. 

Diggle hesitates, his gaze slipping to Felicity and then back. And somehow, when he hands Oliver the suture kit, it feels a little bit like a benediction. “See that you are.”

Diggle only gets two steps away before Oliver thinks to ask, “Any other injuries? Are you okay? Thea?”

“Thea’s fine,” Diggle answers, turning back with a pointed look toward Felicity. “Your girl shielded Thea with her own body.” 

Oliver’s grip on Felicity’s hand tightens, his breath catching in his chest with misplaced panic and gratitude. She squeezes back and he manages to suck in an uneven breath. “And you, John?”

Diggle’s smile is tired and a little sad. “Just some bumps and bruises. I’ll be fine as soon as I get to Lyla and Sara.”

Oliver nods, turning back to Felicity. “Where are we headed?” he asks, carefully opening the suture kit before digging through the medical kit for antibiotic wipes.

“Dubai,” Felicity answers. “Then we need to send Ray’s plane back and find an alternate mode of transportation.”

Oliver considers that. “Okay,” he says. She’s making things sounds less dangerous than they are, but there’s nothing any of them can do about things while they’re en route. The most important thing is to get to Dubai as soon as possible and get as far away from everything that ties them to their old lives. He pauses, his fingers on her thighs and his gaze fixed on her face as he asks, “And then we disappear?”

Felicity’s smile is small and sad and far too guilt-ridden for Oliver’s tastes when she dips her chin in acknowledgement. “And then we disappear.”

END PART ONE


	2. Lyla receives a not-terribly-surprising message

Lyla is adaptable, and a pragmatist at heart.

She could attribute these traits to her Army brat upbringing, or the time she spent serving her country, or even years of choosing the least bad option while working for ARGUS. Each of those circumstances further honed her ability to push aside emotional responses and just do what needs doing. But the truth is, she’s always been this person. 

As a kid, she’d had a knack for puzzles and matching up shapes -- basically anything where recognizing a pattern was required, because she’s always been a strategic thinker. When she’d turned three, she’d screamed for her parents until her dad came running, and then handed over her blanket and her teddy bear, calmly explaining that she was a big girl and didn’t need them anymore, because she’d already learned how to move past her fears.

She’s always looked at a situation with logic instead of emotion. 

Which is not to say that she’s _unfeeling_ , because she actually feels things deeply; just that she’s able to put her wants and desires aside and go with whatever option makes the most sense. 

Sure, it’s harder now, with Johnny and Sara, because she loves them fiercely. Lyla loves the home she’s earned, finally, at age 37. Even with as much as she cherishes the life she has right now, she’s never believed in happily ever after. Because that implies some sort of end state, and you don’t grow up moving from Army base to Army base without learning that life is change. 

Happiness is a moving target, it’s choosing to fight every day for the people you love. And Lyla has lived long enough to know that these kinds of battles are won in the planning.

So when her phone alerts her to a text message a little before noon, just after she’s mostly cleaned Sara up from her lunch and while she’s reheating a piece of lasagna for herself, she doesn’t panic.

Even when she sees that it’s from Johnny.

Even though he’s in Nanda Parbat with Oliver, Felicity, and Thea.

Even though the message is a coded SOS.

_Can you swing by the hardware store today?_

She doesn’t panic, even though panic wouldn’t be an unreasonable response, because she’s been half-expecting this exact emergency text for a while. Probably since Johnny mentioned the League of Assassins last year.

Because ARGUS has amassed quite a lot of information on the League; Lyla knew a lot more about them than Johnny had, the first time he mentioned them. She knew as soon as Johnny explained about Sara Lance, and about Oliver’s connection to Sara that they might all end up here. It’s taken longer than she expected, but -- they seem to be here, just the same.

Lyla takes one deep breath and turns, shutting off the microwave before glancing to Sara, still happily in her highchair playing with a plastic spoon. Getting through what probably comes next with a six-month-old will be a challenge.

And then Lyla’s in motion, even as she answers Johnny’s emergency challenge with a challenge of her own, _Flathead or Phillips-head?_

She digs the packed duffel bag out from the hall closet and zips it open. There are two sets of fresh clothes for each of them, non-descript clothing that can fit in anywhere in the world. She double-checks the bag’s contents as she waits for Johnny to answer her. There are only three possibilities, now.

Whatever happens next, Lyla will follow the plans conceived and perfected over a hundred conversations. She and Johnny have the strangest pillow talk of any couple she knows, but reassuring themselves that they’ve covered every eventuality is another way for them to say _I love you_.

Lyla dumps her uneaten lunch into the trash and bundles up the trash bag to dump it on her way out. She gathers snacks for Sara and tucks them into the diaper bag by the door. Sara starts to fuss so Lyla pulls her from the highchair, singing quietly to her daughter as she brings her into the room Johnny had painted ridiculously late one night, after returning from a successful Team Arrow mission. 

Everything about Sara’s room reminds Lyla of the whirlwind of her unexpected pregnancy, of her and Johnny’s realization that they are it for each other, that they are _family_.

But Lyla doesn’t let herself dwell on that. Instead, she pulls her favorite onesies, a couple tiny pairs of leggings, and some versatile shirts from Sara’s dresser, before changing her into a not-too-cutesy, non-gender-specific light green onesie.

Although she chose the outfit because it’s as unmemorable as she has available, the color seems appropriate for the situation.

Sara is lying on her back, babbling happily as Lyla eases into the hands-free baby carrier. It’s close to naptime, but she’ll just have to risk an unhappy baby (and the possible resulting meltdown), because she’s more sure than ever that she and Sara will be leaving this apartment within the next fifteen minutes. 

Bugout plans were much easier when Lyla didn’t have to think about things like naptime and breast pumps and feeding schedules.

Distracting Sara with a giraffe rattle, Lyla returns to the main room and cast her gaze around for anything worth taking with her. There are several items it will pain her to part with -- gifts from her brother, a saved ticket stub from she and Johnny’s second first date, the program from their wedding -- but they are just _things_. After a moment’s hesitation, Lyla pulls a picture frame from the bookshelf and pulls out the photograph of her, Johnny, and Sara from the wedding. She has digital copies, including one on her phone, but there’s just something about being able to hold the picture in her hand. It’s a small deviation from the plan, but she tucks it into the pocket of the diaper bag for safekeeping anyway.

She is calm, except for the way she compulsively checks her phone for an answer. Because she needs to know what happens next.

Johnny could say there’s been a mistake, that he’d inadvertently used their predetermined code for bugging out. Then she will call and talk to him and confirm for her own peace of mind that he’s not lying or under duress, and they will go on with their lives. It’s both the best-case _and_ least likely scenario.

Johnny could reply _Flathead_ , in which case Lyla will put two, maybe three guns in the emergency duffel, hide a knife in her boot, dust off an ARGUS-era identity, and begin the journey with Sara to meet up with Johnny at a predetermined hotel in Amman. Jordan is just the first step in their plan to go so deep underground that no one can find them -- not ARGUS, not the League, no one.

If there’s _no_ reply, though, Lyla has her own plan, one that she’s never shared with Johnny, since he would no doubt try to dissuade her. But if Johnny goes silent, then he’s in trouble; and if he’s in trouble, Lyla will leave Sara with her brother with strict orders to protect her, and then Lyla will go get her husband back. She will not leave a man behind, especially not the man she loves.

She’s got Sara strapped to her chest, a gun at her hip, and their bugout bag ready to go when Johnny finally replies.

 _Flathead_.

It’s a sudden end to this life they’ve created in Starling City, but Lyla has lived in nearly two dozen places all over the world. She’ll adjust -- _they’ll_ adjust.

She allows herself one look back around this home they built, Sara’s first home, and then steps through the door, calm and alert.

& & &

Once Lyla and Sara emerge into daylight, they are new people -- Joanna Watson, single mother of little Sally. Even while playacting at being a harmless, harried mom-on-the-go, Lyla is watchful for tails, for too-interested eyes, for anything that smells just a little bit wrong to her.

She has no qualms facing danger herself, but she will cut down a hundred men before she would willingly put Sara in harm’s way.

Operating without information makes it more difficult -- the obvious assumption is that Johnny has run afoul of the League. Well, that all of Team Arrow has, actually, since they’re all in Nanda Parbat. But Lyla left ARGUS for a reason, knows they have their own shady interactions going way back, to say nothing of other U.S. agencies, never mind foreign governments. 

Any one of them could be the reason behind their current predicament.

So Lyla uses every evasive maneuver she’s ever learned. She takes a cab to the bus station, enters through one door, exits another, and walks seven block to a second-rate car rental place. She tells a believable, forgettable sob story to the rental agent -- a deadbeat ex, a broken down car -- and then drives a circuitous route to Central City, where Felicity left contingency documentation.

Halfway there, Lyla stops for gas, and to check for tails, and to feed Sara. She sends one more text to Johnny, the prearranged confirmation that she's at least _probably_ safely en route with Sara, but will be off-grid until further notice.

 _Got your flathead. Be home as soon as I can. Love you_.

That last part is just for her. Because she _is_ pragmatic, and she can’t rule out danger reaching either of them before they’re reunited. She learned long ago never to let an opportunity pass to tell Johnny the truth.

Lyla brings Sara into the small gas station bathroom and changes her quickly, trying her best to hush her protests. Sara slept in the car, but not enough, and she is edging towards a meltdown. Lyla manages to head it off, at least for now, with a rousing chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody, and a series of crazy faces -- scrunched up, cheeks puffed out, eyes crossed, anything that works. 

Once Sara is laughing, Lyla disassembles her phone, removing the SIM card and flushing it. 

For as much as she was entertained in the bathroom, Sara’s overtired grumpiness rears its head as soon as she’s back in the car seat. She cries for most of the rest of the drive, and by the time they reach Central City, Lyla has a nagging headache. But she can’t afford to stop, or to let down her guard, so she dry swallows three advils and presses on.

Just before 4 p.m., Lyla walks into the second-busiest branch of the regional bank with Sara strapped to her chest, feeling a little exposed without any weapons on her (save the knife in her boot). She provides all the necessary documentation to be allowed into the shared safety deposit box.

When she opens it, there are three burner phones with sticky notes in Felicity’s familiar scrawl, and a half-dozen small manila envelopes that Lyla knows contain the necessary documents for all of Team Arrow to maintain cover identities. She has no idea whether Felicity and Oliver and Thea are also compromised, but she tucks all of the documents into Sara’s diaper bag. The last item in the box is a leather pouch, about the size of a makeup bag, that holds $50,000, plus chunks of money in other likely currencies -- euros and pounds and yen, at least.

Lyla is distressingly aware that it’s vital to get out of the country as soon as possible, but buying a same-day plane ticket in cash will set off just the kind of alerts she is determined to avoid. So she retreats to her rental car and drives to Jitters, where she orders a half-decaf coffee, pours an irresponsible amount of sugar in it, and brings Sara to a booth in the corner. 

Sara is still fussy, whining a little because she hasn’t napped properly, and she only tolerates the baby carrier for short durations on a good day, and then only if the person wearing it is walking. The volume of Sara’s protests is drawing far more attention than Lyla wants, but she’s nearly out of options, so she gives a mental shrug and fishes out the appropriate burner phone.

“Felicity?” Cisco answers on the third ring. 

It’s a reasonable guess, since Felicity is the mastermind behind this particular part of the contingency plan; Johnny and Oliver had been less enthusiastic about including Barry’s team. Lyla, ever the pragmatist, had had little patience with Johnny’s and Oliver’s reasoning -- _because no one should move that fast_ and _I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else being dragged into this_ , respectively. 

Lyla and Felicity had promptly ignored them both and set up the Central City portion of this contingency plan.

“Cisco, it’s Lyla,” she corrects, hoping he’ll remember her, since they only met briefly. Regardless, he should respond to the coded alert. “I need a little help on a project.”

“Oh. Oh!” There’s a moment of silence, and then Cisco says, “This is _so_ cool! I mean,” he backpedals quickly, sounding chastened, “it’s probably a shitty situation, but the way I can help you? That’s pretty cool.”

Lyla suppresses a grin. “Thanks, I think.” Sara tugs on her hair, and Lyla rocks a little in her seat, trying to distract her daughter.

“You need plane tickets, right? And they need to seem like they were booked weeks ago?” Cisco asks. “That’s what this number and that secret phrase are about.” He sounds a lot more solemn when he continues, “But does that mean -- is Felicity okay?”

“Cisco, I’m operating a little bit in the dark right now,” she answers, letting some of her frustration but none of her anxiety come through in her voice. She doesn’t need him distracted by fear; scared people make mistakes, and she needs him to carry his part out flawlessly. She calms her voice. “All I know is that Sara and I need to meet up with Johnny for a long-overdue vacation.” Because she can’t exactly get into this in public.

“Sure, sure,” Cisco answers quickly. “Okay. Let me just -- Jordan? Is that right? You need to get to Amman?” 

Lyla confirms. 

“So you’re leaving Starling as--”

“We’re here, actually,” Lyla interrupts. 

“Oh. Okay. Sure. Leaving Central City as Lillian and Samantha Miller. You’ll fly through Paris -- sorry, but it’s a good airport to get lost in. And then Jennifer Anderson and her adorable daughter Cindy will be on the flight to Amman. Got it?”

“Yes, Cisco. Thank you, really. You’re a lifesaver.” She means it truthfully -- she’s been carrying this alone for hours, and while she’s still the only thing standing between her daughter and whatever unknown danger is out there, she is incredibly grateful for his help.

He sounds much less excited about the situation when he says, “Yeah, about that? Can I do anything else? For you or for-- for the others?”

Lyla feels that same gnawing tension when she’s forced to think of everything she doesn’t know yet. “That’s all I need for now,” she answers, ruthlessly pushing the anxiety down, since there’s nothing to be done for it. “But I promise to check in.”

“Okay,” Cisco says reluctantly. “Stay safe.”

Three hours later, Lillian Miller boards a flight with her daughter, Samantha. Their checked luggage includes three small knives and a ceramic gun, and Lyla’s jacket is lined with meticulously created governmental identification for all the people she hopes are safe and sound at the other end of this journey.

& & &

An interminable amount of time later, a jet-lagged, sleep deprived Jennifer Anderson grabs her bag off of the luggage carousel at Queen Alia International Airport, her baby Cindy crying in her arms. They blend easily with the other bleary passengers, emerging into the cool sunny Amman afternoon.

Lyla greets the taxi driver in flawless Arabic, and then directs him to a large hotel in the Al Abdali district that caters to international business travelers and tourists. She’s outwardly calm, but her anxiety is rising the closer they come to the hotel. 

Because she and Johnny planned this carefully, sure, and they included fallbacks and secondary options, but… deep down, she’d desperately hoped they’d never have to test it. And so far, she and Sara have reached each milestone in the plan without a problem, which is a relief. But Lyla’s been involved in too many strategic operations to let herself believe the last 5% will go off without a hitch.

It doesn’t help that she’s sleep-deprived and hungry, and probably a little dehydrated.

When the taxi pulls up to the hotel, she pays quickly and steps out, adjusting Sara in the carrier and letting the driver pull her duffel from the trunk. The diaper bag never leaves her side. 

She squints up at the shiny, glass tower for a moment, then presses towards the oversized doors. “Head on a swivel,” she mutters, stopping just inside, pretending to be digging something out of the diaper bag and using the moment to catalogue entries and exits, and scan for obvious, immediate threats.

Then she readjusts the duffel bag, keeping her hand on the throwing knife that’s concealed in the side pocket, since the knife in her boot is less accessible with a baby strapped to her chest. Sara is mercifully distracted by the ornate, sparkling chandeliers hanging at regular intervals through the cavernous lobby. 

Lyla steps to the reservations desk with a smile, clamping down on her anxiety. Her hand is shaking a little when she digs out her Jennifer Anderson ID and slides it across the marble countertop. “Long flight,” she says with a glance down at Sara. It’s true, but it’s not why she’s nervous. “I’m meeting a colleague -- I think he beat me here? He was supposed to leave me a key?”

The pleasant woman behind the desk types quickly, her fingers moving nearly as quickly as Felicity’s can, and then looks up with a smile. “Yes, Miss Anderson.”

Lyla doesn’t let herself relax, however much she wants to.

The clerk swipes two keycards, then carefully writes a room number on the small card envelope and hands them over along with Lyla’s fake ID. She points out the elevators, and then nods. “Enjoy your stay.”

With a quick word of thanks, Lyla smooths a hand down Sara’s back, reassuring her as she moves as quickly as she can without _looking_ like she’s hurrying. She’s still on high alert as they cross the vast lobby.

It’s only as the elevator doors close, leaving three men and two other women in the car with her, that Lyla exhales. It’s an enclosed space, but also a finite number of possible assailants. She’s got her back against the wall, one hand on Sara, and the other on the concealed knife.

When they reach Johnny’s floor, Lyla and Sara step off alone, but she walks slowly until the elevator doors close again. She slips the knife free, then she shifts the duffel from her shoulder to holding it with her left hand, so it can be a makeshift weapon if need be.

There’s some non-zero chance that this could be a set up, a trap using information tortured out of Johnny to get her and Sara here. It’s a loathsome thought, but Lyla has dealt with some pretty loathsome people, and she will do anything to keep Sara clear of that.

The keycards are tucked into her back pocket, forgotten, as she moves down the long, empty hallway. Her breathing is a little unsteady as she approaches the door. As quietly as possible, she places the duffel on the carpet, several feet shy of the door. She readies the knife in her free hand and moves closer.

Keeping to the side of the doorframe, turned as much as possible to shield Sara from anyone coming out of the room, she draws in a slow breath, lets it out, and then raps on the door. Loudly. In the pattern they’d established all those years ago trying to find alone time in an overcrowded base camp in Afghanistan.

It feels like forever until she hears footsteps in the room. She tenses, waiting, one hand cradling Sara’s head protectively, the other wielding the knife.

There are four answering knocks, in rapid succession, but the pattern is what Johnny created back then. Before she can react, the door is wrenched open and he’s there, warm dark eyes drinking her in, and apparently unharmed in a navy henley and jeans. 

“Johnny,” she whispers, because even now, even after fleeing their home and traveling thousands of miles and maintaining strict watchfulness, even overcome with relief and love and gratefulness that her husband is _here_ , unharmed, she knows they can’t be overheard using each other’s names. 

Johnny knows too, but he is practically vibrating with the need to touch her, to greet them both properly. 

But their cover in the hotel is work colleagues, so Lyla draws on the last of her willpower. “Can you grab the bag, please?” she asks, and makes herself walk past him into their suite. He doesn’t stop staring, and lets his hand touch her shoulder, runs a finger along Sara’s arm as they slip past.

Eyes stinging from exhaustion and emotion, Lyla moves further into the room. She hears the door close, the deadbolt thrown, and then two strong, familiar arms encircle her from behind. 

“Lyla, thank God,” Johnny says into her ear. He’s got one hand across her belly, the other on Sara’s back. Sara grins at her father, her chubby hands patting his face as she babbles to him.

Lyla lets herself melt back into him, taking comfort from his strength, from his scent, from his _presence_. “Are you okay?” she asks. It’s the question she’s been desperate to ask for hours and hours.

“I am now,” he answers immediately, leaning over her shoulder to kiss Sara’s temple, then turning to kiss her cheek. “Want me to take her?”

She tips her head back against his chest, letting herself rest against him for a long moment. Finally, _finally_ the hard knot of anxiety in her chest starts to loosen. “Yes, she ate about an hour ago, maybe, but she really needs to sleep.” Johnny presses kisses to her hair and she drops one hand from Sara, reaching back to pat his thigh. “I need to shower.”

“And then sleep,” Johnny guesses, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

“Sit-rep first,” she corrects, “then shower, then sleep.”

“It’s the League,” Johnny answers flatly, his grip on her tightening just a bit. “Thea’s okay, more or less. Then Felicity drugged Oliver and we dragged him out of there.”

Stunned, Lyla takes half a step forward and turns, staring up at his face. She knows immediately that he’s telling the truth. “Holy--”

“Yes,” he interrupts before she can swear in front of Sara. 

Lyla has about a million questions, but Sara is fussing, now, and reaching for her father. So she lets her husband take their daughter, watches with that familiar warmth in her chest as he cradles her in those strong arms of his, then goes up on tiptoe to give him a proper kiss hello. “I love you, Johnny,” she says, then rocks back onto her heels.

There’s still tension in his frame, but Johnny smiles down at her. “I love you, too. Go shower, I’ll put her down.”

Lyla cranks the water to hot until the room is filled with steam, placing the large knife and the small one she’d tucked in her booth on the countertop and then peeling layers of travel clothes off. When she steps into the shower, she hisses and adjusts the temperature, then ducks her face into the stream, leaning a palm against the slick tile walls.

She’s been running on adrenaline and determination for well over twenty-four hours, now, and she can feel the crash coming. 

Lyla has no idea how long she’s been in there, but she knows it’s been a while when she feels a cool draft, and then Johnny’s hand low on her back. 

“You okay?” he asks, pressing against her so the spray reaches him. 

“I’m still processing,” she admits, relaxing against him, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. “And I need a solid four hours of sleep. At least.”

His hands drift along her sides, then ease her forward a bit so he can work at the knots and the tension. When Lyla lets her head drop forward, his talented thumbs smooth along her neck, and she moans.

His fingers flex against her. “Lyla,” he says, and his tone is a little bit broken.

She turns, looping her arms around his neck and leaning up to kiss him. It’s soft and sweet at first, but escalates quickly into something hot and desperate. She knows he’s been at least as scared as she has been the past however many hours. They need this reconnection, this physical confirmation that they’re here, they’re together, they’re okay.

Johnny leans back, breathing hard, and gives her a familiar look. “Okay?” he asks, and she knows he’s asking a lot of different questions in one.

She chooses to answer the easiest, giving him that slow smile she saves for him alone. “Definitely,” she answers, tightening her grip on his shoulders and bringing one leg up to his hip.

It’s answer enough, and Johnny lifts her up, presses her against the cool marble tile, and slides home. She lets her eyes drift shut as he kisses her neck, her collarbone. 

“I missed you,” Johnny says quietly, and she opens her eyes, giving him what he needs to know she’s here with him. 

They rock together, eyes locked on each other, and it’s slow and emotional and exactly what she needed. Except that her post-orgasmic bliss leaves her so exhausted that Johnny has to help her wash and rinse, then wrap her in a towel. She manages to tug on clean panties and Johnny’s discarded t-shirt before stumbling into the bedroom. 

Sara’s asleep in a hotel-issue crib, and the sight tightens something in Lyla’s chest. Johnny joins her, taking his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s rest a bit,” he suggests, even though it’s mid-afternoon and he’s not jetlagged.

Lyla follows him to bed, and they end up on their sides, faces close, hands joined between them. She’s so, so tired, but she asks, “Johnny, what are we doing? What happens next?”

He shifts, kissing her sweetly once, then again. “We’ll figure it out, Lyla. We’ll keep her safe.”

Lyla nods tiredly, but she can’t let the guilt she hears in his voice go unaddressed. “My home is this family, Johnny,” she whispers. “Not a building. Not a city.”

“Lyla--”

“As long as we’re together,” she interrupts, burrowing a little further into the pillow “we’re home. So no guilt.”

Her eyes have drifted shut. The sheets rustle, and then Johnny presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’re the best decision I ever made, Lyla.”

She smiles. “Twice.”

Johnny laughs. “Yes,” he agrees. “Twice.”

“Now shut up and let me sleep.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

She’s smiling as she drifts to sleep. “Damn right.”

END PART TWO


	3. Thea is restless in Dubai

 

They’ve been in Dubai for three days.

Thea is sick to death of their hotel suite at this point, but they are laying low. Well, Ollie calls it that, but Thea thinks of it as hiding. Doesn’t really matter, since the end result is the same -- spending most of their time in a hotel suite paid for by Thea’s (probably dead) father’s money, checked in under aliases. Because _aliases_  are apparently a part of her life now; aliases and the need to playact like she’s someone she’s not.

Which should be easy, since Thea doesn’t even know who she is anymore. She hasn’t in a while, a year or more at a minimum, but coming back from the almost-dead thanks to some kind of magical wellspring ripped whatever meager constants she had left away entirely.

So she’s still reeling, still trying to wrestle the jarring, discordant memories and thoughts in her head into some kind of understandable narrative. Her life _before_  this hotel room is a jumbled mess of sadness and anger and grief, and everything kind of sucks. Because she can’t remember _how_  her mother died, only that she’s gone; she can’t remember _why_  the thought of Tommy makes her stomach twist with grief, only that it does; she can’t remember _h_ _ow_  her father justified using her to kill Sara, she only knows she did it -- she killed Sara.

All that’s clear to her now, the only thing she knows for sure is that she _hurts_  -- she’s lonely and guilty and scared. She feels like she’s been used up and left a husk of the bright, sarcastic girl she used to be.

Ironically, when she _was_  that girl, she hated it. She felt abandoned and forgotten sometimes, and she learned how to project this image of Thea Queen, Daughter of Important People so well that she was left feeling... _ephemeral_. Like there was no Thea, only some dust mites floating around in a projection of what she thought she should be.

But now? Looking back?  God, she longs for the days when her only problem was where to score drugs and which party to show up to and whether her mom would catch her sneaking out again.

Now she’s a raw wound, all dark emotions, and she’s not sure she’s a talented enough actress to cover it up.

But playing a part _has_  to be easier than watching her brother -- who she was _sure_  was dead -- try to hide his distress every time she says something wrong. Because Ollie’s kicked puppy look is killer, and the last thing Thea needs is _more_  guilt.

So sure. Taylor Fitzgerald it is.

To distract herself from the suck that is her _actual_  life, Thea has spent some of her abundant free time out on the balcony of their suite, thinking up elaborate backstories for Taylor to avoid delving into her own.

Because Taylor _definitely_  doesn’t have a (probably dead) sociopath for a father.

Taylor’s not an orphan three times over, with no living family other than an emotionally damaged brother whom she thought was dead for years.

Taylor’s boyfriend wasn’t killed in jail, only not actually killed, because it was part of an elaborate plot to save the aforementioned damaged brother. And even if something that crazy were to happen in Taylor’s life, no one would _lie to her_  about it and keep her in the dark and let her think her boyfriend was _dead_.

Taylor’s mother wasn’t run through with a sword because--

And -- Thea’s crying again.

_Taylor probably doesn’t cry_. The thought is unwanted and cruel. _Fuck_ , Thea wishes she could _be_  Taylor, be someone stronger, someone who doesn’t feel so lost and alone.

It’s actually quite an accomplishment, Thea thinks, feeling this crushing loneliness when she’s been trapped in a hotel suite with her brother and Felicity. She pulls three tissues from the box by her bedside and pushes herself upright, moving to sit cross-legged in the center of the mattress as she swipes angrily at the wetness on her cheeks.

Before she can pull herself together, there’s a soft knock on her door. Great. That’ll be Ollie, right on time for his daily attempts to make her feel better.

Thea sighs. “Yeah?”

The door opens a bit and Felicity tilts into view at an angle, her feet firmly outside the room and only her torso daring to lean into Thea’s room. Felicity has been much quieter than Thea would expect, and has taken pains to give her as much space as possible. Thea isn’t sure whether to attribute that to Felicity’s guilt over not telling her they were faking Roy’s death, or her guilt over drugging Ollie and sending them all into this exciting life of hiding in hotel rooms to avoid being killed by the League of Assassins.

Felicity’s got a lot of guilt going on, basically, which is why Thea does not expect her to smile and ask, “How do you feel about a clothes run?”

Thea blinks. “What?”

“Well,” Felicity says, letting go of the door knob to sweep her hand in front of her aqua sweatshirt with the Dubai skyline on it, “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sick of hotel gift shop chic.”

Thea glances down reflexively at her too-big black t-shirt and the overly bright purple leggings. It’s not a good look. “Yeah, that’s--” She stops, finds herself grinning. “You can actually come in, Felicity.”

“Oh.” Felicity nods, pushes the door open a bit more, and steps inside. She’s still limping noticeably from the arrow she took shielding Thea during the escape from Nanda Parbat; Felicity shifts sideways and leans a hip against the TV cabinet, taking the weight off of her bad leg. “Since your brother’s fashion sense remains--”

“Terrible?” Thea offers acerbically.

Felicity grins, and how did Thea not know she had dimples?  “I was going to say under-developed, but yours works, too.”

“Hey,” Ollie protests from somewhere in the common area.

“No one’s talking to you,” Thea shouts back, but she’s smiling, and for a brief moment, she feels kind of normal. Like maybe she’ll be able to figure all of this out after all.

“So, you’re in?” Felicity asks, a hopeful expression in place.

Thea nods. “How’d you convince Captain Grumpypants?” she wonders. Because her brother’s usual protectiveness has been cranked up to eleven ever since Diggle left for Amman. Thea understands it, but she still chafes at his inability to treat her as a grown woman, as a good fighter.

“Well,” Felicity answers, her smile open and guileless, “I’m the nobody of the group, so--”

“Felicity,” Ollie interjects, sounding exasperated.

Felicity rolls her eyes for Thea’s benefit. “You know what I mean,” she calls. “ _I’ve_  never had my face on the cover of a tabloid.”

Thea smirks, remembering a certain story from a year or so ago. Something about _Playboy CEO and His Right Hand Girl_. “Actually,” Thea drawls.

Felicity lifts a finger in warning. “We do not speak of that,” she declares, steel in her voice, and Thea will never understand how someone so tiny and seemingly unimposing can be so intimidating. Felicity’s backbone and her devotion to the people she loves reminds Thea of the non-morally questionable parts of her own mother. The _admirable_  parts of Moira Queen. The fierce devotion that Thea still misses.

“Thea?” Felicity asks, brow furrowed, and Thea realizes she’s been staring vacantly into space with tears in her eyes.

Swiping a tissue across her face, _again_ , Thea says, “Sorry, zoned out.”

Felicity doesn’t push, just dips her chin and says, “Your brother saw reason -- eventually -- and agreed that I should be the one to venture into public, as I’m the least recognizable. But he also won’t agree to me going alone.”

Thea is both disappointed that the invitation has been offered mostly because of the logic of it, and not any actual desire on Felicity’s part to spend time with her. She’s also suspicious of what, exactly, Ollie will get up to while they’re gone. Sliding to her feet, Thea moves to the door, gesturing for Felicity to follow her into the large common area. Ollie is sprawled in the corner of the couch in just his boxers, and Thea scrunches up her nose. “Really, Ollie?”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “I sent my clothes to be laundered.” He has stubbornly refused to wear any of the Dubai-branded clothing available in the gift shop, which means he’s spent a lot of time in his underwear. Thankfully, the gift shop _does_  sell plain boxers.

Felicity uses the back of the couch as a makeshift crutch and then sinks down near Ollie, propping her foot up on the coffee table. “Thus proving my point about us desperately needing a clothing run,” she says, though she doesn’t seem terribly upset that Ollie is half-naked.

And Thea wrinkles her nose, remembering their first night in the suite, when Ollie had practically dragged a red-faced Felicity into their bedroom and slammed the door. Thank _God_  the bedrooms are on opposite sides of the common area. Yuck.

“So,” Thea says, “while Felicity and I are off getting you a change of clothes -- and don’t think I won’t take this opportunity to get you into some, like, mustard-colored skinny jeans and a bolo tie--”

“Thea,” Ollie warns.

She blithely ignores him. “What, exactly, will _you_  be doing while we’re gone?”

Ollie gives a very pointed look to his state of undress, then quirks a sarcastic eyebrow at her.

“ _After_  your clothes are back,” she clarifies. Because she knows there’s something there, just from the way he’s trying to avoid answering the question.

When Ollie and Felicity exchange looks, Thea explodes. “No, we’re not doing that. I’ve had _enough_  of being kept in the dark. No more _lying_  to me, Ollie. Especially not about any of _this_!” She gestures around the room to include their entire current situation.

Ollie opens his mouth to answer, but Felicity’s hand on his thigh draws his attention. They have another wordless conversation, and then Felicity turns to Thea, looking far too guilty, and answers quietly, “You’re right. We all need to be aware of everything that’s going on. We need to agree on plans, because all we have right now is each other.”

Warily, Thea stares at her, then turns to study her brother. He’s not happy about any of this, but he holds her gaze and gives her the tiniest of nods. “Okay,” Thea says. “What are the plans?”

“We’re still working on that,” Felicity answers, “but we got a package from Diggle this morning.”

Ollie, who has straightened up, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “We have documents, passports,” he explains. “We can get out of here, head somewhere else. But first, I’m going to get some cash.”

Thea considers that, trying to work out why he seems weirdly tense. Why Felicity’s hand on his leg has tightened, her fingers digging into his flesh a little bit.

And then Thea gets it. “Wait, you as in _you_. Oliver Queen,” she surmises. “Isn’t that _dangerous_?”

Felicity nods. “It’s a calculated risk. But if-- If anyone traces Ray’s plane, they’ll already know we were in Dubai. This should be the last place anyone can find any trace of Oliver Queen.”

That makes a kind of sense, but Thea is unmoved. “And what if the League already has people here? What if they’re monitoring your accounts?”

“We need the money, Speedy. We need to have resources available all the time, _on_  us at all times. We can’t be sure there will always be the right internet connection available.” Ollie glances at Felicity, his heart in his eyes. “Felicity already has us booked on flights today. We want to disappear as soon as possible. I’ll go directly from the bank, meet you guys at the airport.”

Felicity holds Thea’s gaze. “And we’ll pack the clothes we buy in the suitcases we buy, and be ready to go.”

Thea thinks that over. It’s still dangerous and she still doesn’t like the idea of them splitting up, but after a long moment, she nods. “Okay.”

Felicity gives her the first real, true smile Thea’s seen from her since Nanda Parbat. “Good!”

& & &

The shopping goes quickly.

This shouldn’t be _that_  much of a surprise, considering the shopping expertise between Thea and her -- what? Almost sister-in-law? She’s not sure how to think of Felicity quite yet, but as they make efficient trips through three stores, stocking up on comfortable, forgettable, easy to layer clothing for themselves and Ollie, Thea decides that she definitely _l_ _ikes_  Felicity. Independently of Felicity-and-Ollie, independently of how they are all basically stuck with each other at this point, and even independently of how Felicity actually saved her life and is still limping as a result.

Thea _likes_  Felicity.

She also really appreciates how much Felicity loves her brother. It doesn’t escape Thea’s notice that Felicity keeps the burner phone she’s using in her hand _basically_ the entire time they’re in the mall, waiting for word from Ollie. She glances down at it so often that Thea reaches out to touch her arm. “He’ll be okay,” she says, even if she’s not entirely sure she can make _herself_  believe it.

But Felicity nods and gives an almost-real smile. “You’re right.” She shifts her grip on the large shopping bags she’s carrying and tilts her head towards the not-quite-high-end department store. “Shall we?”

Thea hesitates before agreeing. She’s impressed at how hard Felicity is pushing herself, but the penetrating wound she got from that arrow will take a while to heal. Walking the length and breadth of a huge shopping mall is probably not helping. But Felicity doesn’t let it slow her down much -- she just limps purposefully along, looking for the luggage.

Once they find it, Felicity picks two matching navy blue roller bags, and turns to Thea. “What would you like?”

A slow grin steals across Thea’s face, and she feels just a little bit of her old playfulness. She’s not sure if it’s the familiar, comforting context of _shopping_ , or if Felicity has managed to put her at some ease. But when Thea inhales, she doesn’t feel that suffocating pressure in her chest. So she smiles wider and turns to Felicity. “Well,” she drawls, “I’ve definitely never bought knock-off luggage before, but that fake-ass Gucci pattern is _almost_  convincing.”

Smirking, Felicity moves to the tan bag with the stylized, interlocking Cs instead of Gs. “This one?” At Thea’s nod, she runs a finger along the material and makes a faux impressed face. “Pleather!” she announces. “Excellent choice!”

Thea laughs. Actually laughs. And then shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t much like the real logo, never mind that mess.” She pulls a plain maroon bag out and examines it. “This one doesn’t suck.”

It’s non-descript, which is basically their mission statement now -- _let’s be forgettable!_  -- so Thea is not at all surprised when Felicity nods and turns to find the registers.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re in the surprisingly luxurious ladies’ room, newly acquired luggage open on the floor in front of the chaise. Thea insists that Felicity sit and rest her leg, and when Felicity doesn’t argue, she knows the injury is bothering her. But Felicity just keeps on getting shit done.

They snap tags off of their new clothes and methodically pack them away. None of the bags end up full, and the two women frown down at them. Thea’s not sure why Felicity’s unhappy, but she herself is realizing that the meager contents of this knock-off luggage are her only (accessible) possessions in the world. It’s kind of sobering.

Felicity leans over, fussing with the contents a little. “Won’t this look strange?” she worries, waving her hand around to indicate the empty space along the top of the suitcase.

“To who?” Thea wonders, hands on her hips.

“The--” Felicity shrugs. “Whatever the Dubai equivalent of the TSA is? Security? Won’t people traveling with half-empty suitcases catch someone’s attention?”

“Felicity,” Thea says, reaching over and turning Felicity to face her. “We’re going-- Wait, where _are_ we going?”

Felicity bites her lip, then sighs. “Cape Town, South Africa.”

Thea’s eyebrows lift. She's not sure what she was really expecting, but it apparently wasn't South Africa. But, hey, she's always liked elephants. “Okay. We’re going to South Africa. As tourists. And we need room to bring home all the great stuff we’re going to buy. Like, I don’t know -- baby lion stuffed animals?”

Felicity brightens a little. “Oh, that’s good.” She very nearly smiles when she adds, “Well, I mean, maybe not the stuffed animal part, but I’m sure there are lovely batiks we could be buying. As tourists.”

“It’s good because it’s true,” Thea insists. “Because this,” she says, sweeping her hand towards the clothing in the suitcases, “is not enough for, like, _life_  in general. We’re gonna need to buy more as we go.”

Felicity turns her face away, her shoulders stiffening. “Sorry,” she mutters.

"Hey, Felicity, what--?”

A muffled sob interrupts Thea’s question, and she immediately drops onto the end of the chaise and wraps her arms around Felicity from behind, pressing her cheek against the other woman’s shoulder blade. “Listen to me,” Thea says. “None of this is your fault. You saved my brother, after he saved me. I would live in that moldy plane wreck on Ollie’s shitty island if it meant he was alive and free.”

“But this--” Felicity stops, takes a deep, unsteady breath, and taps Thea’s arms where they lay across her midsection. Thea loosens her hold and eases back a little as Felicity turns. “This isn’t want I wanted for you _or_  for Oliver. I didn’t... I didn’t _think_  about what it would mean.”

Thea studies Felicity’s tear-streaked face. “You love my brother, and he loves you. Of _course_  you couldn’t leave him to become some murder-y shell of himself. I’m not mad at you, Felicity, and neither is Ollie.”

Felicity makes a soft noise of disagreement and looks down, the burner phone still clenched tightly in her fist.

Thea gently places one hand atop Felicity’s. “Hey,” she says, her voice sharp enough that Felicity snaps her head back up. “I’m not angry, Felicity,” she repeats. “I’m thankful.”

Felicity just stares, eyes wide behind her glasses. “I don’t...” She shrugs. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

Thea turns back to the suitcases, flipping the lids closed and zipping them up with quick, controlled motions. She wants out of this ladies’ room. She wants forward motion to break Felicity out of her melancholy. “How about we swing by that drugstore and grab--”

The phone chimes, and both women fall silent. Felicity swipes open the message as Thea crowds closer, pressing their shoulders together.

_On my way to the airport_.

Thea groans. “He’s not big on sharing details, is he?”

That gets a laugh and a look of commiseration from Felicity. “He’s _really_  not.” She checks her phone again. “We’ve got three hours before our flight.”

Thea nods, grabbing her bag and one of the others. “Let’s go find Ollie,” she says, heading for the door.

“Yes, let’s,” Felicity agrees, relief in every syllable.

When they reach one of the mall exits, Thea steps forward, lifting her hand to flag down a cab. The cabbie stows their luggage in the trunk, and Thea slides into the backseat beside Felicity. They’re silent for a bit, watching the scenery slip by outside the cab.

As they reach the airport, Thea reaches across the seat and takes Felicity’s hand in hers. “Do you think we have time for a manicure before our flight?”

This time, when Felicity smiles back, it’s wide and genuine, and, yeah, no wonder Ollie is so far gone on her, Thea thinks.

“I think we can _make_  time,” Felicity answers. “My nails are a _mess_.”

Thea nods, grinning back. “You and me are going to be good friends, Felicity,” she decides. She leans closer and bumps her shoulder. “Ollie won’t know what hit him.”

END CHAPTER


	4. Meanwhile back in Vegas...

No one is more surprised than Donna when the small flip phone tucked away in her bra rings sharply one night at precisely 11:25 p.m.

She’s on the floor at Caesar’s, in the middle of a shift, and she’s absolutely _not_ supposed to have a phone on her. A couple of the patrons at the craps table glance around, trying to locate the loud chirping sound, and Donna gives a quick, apologetic smile, backing away. She can’t turn the ringer off without reaching into her uniform top, and doing _that_ on the floor would probably get her fired -- if having the phone doesn’t get her fired first. 

Frantically, she moves towards the nearest bar, knowing this is all being captured on camera and hoping she’ll be able to come up with an excuse later. 

“Larry, sweetie,” she chirps to the bartender, a very young, very gay, very handsome man who’s got a bit of a sweet spot for the older cocktail waitresses. Not that Donna likes to think of herself as an _older_ cocktail waitress, but just this once, she’s happy to take advantage. “Watch my tray for a minute?” 

It’s technically a question, but she doesn’t wait for his answer, depositing the small, round tray and its seven undelivered drinks onto the back bar and slipping into the nearest bathroom, just as the ringing stops. The staff aren’t supposed to use the public restrooms, but she’ll tell Jerry the Jerk she had a _lady emergency_ and he’ll back right off. 

As soon as she’s out of sight of the cameras, she reaches into her cleavage and pulls out her phone, frowning at it. Her everyday phone is tucked away in her locker, just like it’s supposed to be. Her everyday phone is the smartphone that Felicity re-programmed to her specifications. Donna’s sure that her phone is great, it’s just that she still has trouble with it on occasion. So she carries this tiny, simple flip phone on the floor for emergencies -- she’s been in Vegas long enough to have run into trouble a time or two, which is why she keeps her bouncer friends on speed dial. Just in case.

But no one _calls_ this phone. No one even has the number.

As Donna flips it open to check the missed call, it starts to ring again. The number is unfamiliar. In fact, it doesn’t look like a telephone number at all -- there’s a plus sign and then clusters of numbers. It looks more like some of Felicity’s morse code than a telephone number, but the phone is ringing and the display says INCOMING CALL.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she mutters, bringing the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Felicity, baby?” Donna asks, a little stunned. Because Felicity doesn’t know about this phone, so how is she--?

“Mom, I need you to listen to me for a minute, okay?” It’s definitely Felicity, but her voice is scratchy and a little echo-y, like she’s far away. Donna frowns, confused and more than a little concerned.

Stepping around several drunk girls checking their makeup in the mirror, Donna edges into a bathroom stall, locking the door and staring blankly at the tiled wall. “Felicity, what’s going on? Where are you? How did you know about this phone?”

“Mom--”

“How did you get it to _ring_? I'm pretty sure I turned it off, and--”

“Mom!”

“What, honey?” Donna asks, a little bit hurt by that frustrated tone from her daughter. It reminds her of years and _years_ of dismissiveness and anger and longing for something _easier_ between the two of them. She’d thought they were past that now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m trying to _tell_ you,” Felicity answers. “Listen, something happened. I’m okay, but I’m--”

“What happened?” Donna demands.

“It doesn’t matter,” Felicity insists, and Donna can hear the tears she’s trying to suppress. “We’re fine. We’re all okay. It’s just -- I’ll be out of contact for a little while, and I didn’t want you to worry.”

Donna feels the curl of dread in her belly. “Felicity, honey, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s-- It’s _fine_ , mom,” she says, and Donna knows her daughter is lying. She just doesn’t know _why_.

“Where are you right now?” she demands, mentally calculating how much she has in savings, how quickly she can pack and get to the airport. It’d be much easier if she hadn’t just put another $600 into her car. “Just tell me and I’ll be there.”

“Mom, no,” Felicity argues, and now she _is_ crying, little hiccuping sounds echoing down the line, breaking Donna’s heart. 

She reaches a hand to the tiled wall, steadying herself from the sudden onslaught of panic. If she can’t afford a plane ticket, she can drive. Or take the train -- there are still trains, right? “Please tell me what happened. Let me help you, baby girl.”

“I-- I made a mistake, mom, and I--” She breaks off with a sob, and Donna’s protective instincts overwhelm her. She remembers vividly the tearful phone call from Felicity when Cooper was arrested; she remembers her daughter’s breakdown when Cooper killed himself (or, as it turned out, pretended to kill himself so he could join the NSA). There’s nothing worse in the entire world than to not be able to help when her daughter is heartbroken. Donna promised herself that she’ll stop anyone who thinks they can mess with her precious Felicity. _Anyone_.

“Just tell me who you’re afraid of,” Donna orders, that hard, no-nonsense tone edging her voice. It’s the tone that Felicity learned to sit up and take note of by the time she was three. The same tone that sends full-grown men into wide-eyed panic even now. Because it brooks no arguments, no excuses.

“Mom, no--”

“You think I don’t know shady people, Felicity?” Donna demands, too loudly, considering she’s in a public restroom in her place of employment. But none of that matters if Felicity needs her. “I have chips I can call in, with people who can help us _fix_ this mistake--”

“It’s not that kind of problem, mom,” Felicity interrupts, and Donna hears that same steely determination in her daughter’s voice. She’s simultaneously proud and really, really scared. 

Because she’s always known her baby girl is strong; she’s just always hoped Felicity would never _need_ to be strong -- at least not in the ways Donna has had to be. “Felicity--?”

“I have things under control,” Felicity insists, and all traces of fear, of distress, are tucked away as she keeps talking. “I just need you to be careful for a while, okay?”

“Careful?” Donna questions. She’s still convinced that Felicity is in danger, and Donna doesn’t care one whit about her own safety if that’s true. All she wants, all she’s ever wanted, is for her baby girl to be safe and loved and happy.

“Just check your email later, okay?” Felicity says. “You’ve got vacation time saved up, and I got you plane tickets to--”

“To come see you?” Donna interrupts excitedly. “Oh, Felicity, you had me worried, and I think seeing your beautiful face would--”

“No, mom, no. Not-- Not here. Just-- You always said you wanted to see the real Paris, right?”

“The real Paris?” Donna repeats, remembering dozens of walks through the Paris casino, young Felicity in tow. They’d both stared up in awe at the fake Eiffel Tower, and Donna has always known she’d never be able to see the real one, but that never stopped her from hoping. Optimism is important; hope is one trait she always tried to instill in her daughter. In any other instance, Donna would be thrilled to have her unreachable dreams come true, but her daughter is trying to send her to Paris to distract her from whatever danger she’s in. Donna doesn’t like it at all. “Felicity, no.”

“Mom, I _need_ you to do this for me, okay? I need you to be safe.”

“I need _you_ to be safe,” Donna argues, and she can’t quite keep the undercurrent of anger from her tone. She just hopes Felicity knows she’s mad at whatever situation has her so rattled, and not at Felicity herself. “And nothing you’ve said to me tonight convinces me that you are.”

“I am,” Felicity says. “I promise you, mom. I’m-- I’m safe right now. Please, _please_ do this for me. I have to go now.”

Donna stills, pressing the phone more tightly to her ear. “Wait, no--”

“I love you, mom.”

“Felicity!” But Donna is speaking to dead air now. The familiar sounds of the casino rush back in -- faint dinging from outside the bathroom, easy chatter among the ladies fixing their hair and makeup, the soundtrack of favorites piped in to keep patrons’ moods happy.

Eyes closing, Donna brings the phone away from her ear and shuts it with a plastic snap. “Felicity,” she whispers. “What’s going on?”

& & &

As Felicity promised, there’s a trip to Paris booked for Donna, the details of which are sitting in her email inbox. Two weeks abroad, all pre-paid, plus a deposit of $10,000 in her checking account. There’s even an email from Caesar’s human resources department, confirming that her vacation time has been approved and wishing her a nice trip.

Donna packs in a daze, and it’s not until she’s at the airport that she decides that she won’t sit idly by. No, she needs to have some input on exactly where she’s going while she awaits more information from her daughter. 

Her daughter whose cellphone is disconnected all of a sudden, and whose assistant at Palmer Tech will only say is “unavailable.” 

Her daughter whose boyfriend Ray explained, once Donna reached him through persistent pestering of his executive assistant, that he was no longer her boyfriend and also that she took a couple weeks of vacation and is presumably traveling outside of Starling.

Donna is no Felicity, intelligence-wise, but she’s not a stupid woman. So when every bit of information only adds to her concern, she decides she’s going to get some answers. She loves her baby girl more than anything in the world, and she is _owed_ some answers.

The sweet ticket agent helps her exchange her Vegas-NYC-Paris ticket for Vegas-Starling, and then Donna spends the time before her flight speaking to someone at the hotel chain about changing her Paris reservations to Starling as well. 

By the time she steps on the plane, she has at least a tentative plan. First, find Oliver Queen -- or his handsome bodyguard, John Diggle. Then make one or both of them explain to her what is going on with Felicity. Because it hasn’t escaped Donna’s notice just how in love with her daughter Oliver Queen is. If anyone is as determined to find her daughter as Donna is, it’ll be Oliver.

Unfortunately, her plan falls apart not long after she arrives in Starling. 

Well, not exactly _falls apart_ , because she still thinks Oliver Queen is the best avenue to finding her baby girl. It’s just that Donna doesn’t know where Oliver lives, _or_ John, and she certainly doesn’t have her daughter’s ability to look things up on the computer. So she checks into her hotel, drops her luggage off in her room, and asks the concierge for directions to the police station.

Donna marches up the grand staircase and into the police station, determined and angry and scared. All of which she channels into her voice when she says, “I’d like to report a missing person.” She says it _loudly_.

There’s some fumbling, some wide-eyed stuttering from the cops at the desk, and increasingly loud demands from her before a ruggedly handsome, salt-of-the-earth type in a rumpled uniform appears. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his voice gruff with exasperation.

Donna lifts her chin. “My daughter is missing,” she declares, “and I need your help to find her.” She glances at the badge clipped to his chest. “Captain Lance.”

He gives a quick nod, then turns to the other cops who hadn’t known what to do with her. “I’ve got this, guys.” He steps toward Donna and indicates she should come with him. “Right this way, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she answers, following him between clusters of desks towards a small, windowed office in the back. The interior of the police station is green and yellow and dated, somehow, like a faded picture in a photo album. Nothing vibrant, nothing bright like she’s used to. Though, to be fair, nothing in Starling is like Vegas, which is probably for the best. “And,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “please don’t call me _ma’am_.”

“All right,” the Captain agrees, pausing to let her through the door first. “What should I call you?”

Donna turns to face him, offering her hand. “Donna Smoak.”

The Captain freezes, his eyes wide. “Smoak?” he repeats, his gaze skimming down her form quickly. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen a million times from a million men, but somehow his gaze is more curious than lecherous. Despite her _very_ flattering purple dress and the generous decolletage on display. “Are you Felicity’s mother?”

It’s Donna’s turn to go still, not even noticing that her hand is still in his. “You know my daughter?”

“Felicity is _missing_?” he demands, and Donna can tell by the tone of his voice that this man knows her daughter. And genuinely _likes_ daughter.

Not that many people could meet Felicity and _not_ fall in love with her. Donna may be biased, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“Yes,” Donna insists, her grip on his hand tightening. Because he needs to listen to her and take her seriously. She knows that serious people look at her and see a caricature. She knows she’s... _discounted_ sometimes, just because she feels like her best self with a flattering dress, carefully styled hair, and a bright pop of lipstick. But she needs this man, this friend of Felicity’s, to _believe_ her. Donna takes a breath and says, “She called me and said she made a mistake and would be laying low for a while, and that I needed to be careful. I need you and maybe Oliver Queen to help me--”

“Why Oliver Queen?” the Captain interrupts her, his mouth twisting with distaste.

Donna blinks. “Because he loves her,” she explains. She _does_ find it curious that the Captain knows her daughter and doesn’t know something that basic about her life, but she presses on. “And Oliver has a lot of money to help with the search.”

Gently, Captain Lance disentangles their hands and ushers her to the visitor’s chair. He flops into his desk chair with a sigh, then leans forward, clasping his hands together as he studies her. “There’s-- There’s a lot about Oliver Queen I should maybe explain, but first, please tell me what’s got you so concerned about Felicity that you’ve come all the way here from…?”

He doesn’t actually ask the question, but Donna responds with a smile. “Las Vegas.” 

The Captain nods, but doesn’t pursue the topic further. Instead, he tugs a small notepad from his breast pocket and plucks a no-nonsense blue Bic from the cupholder. Once he flips to an empty page in his notebook, he looks at her expectantly.

So Donna explains, as best she can, and with as much detail as she remembers, exactly what Felicity told her on the phone. When she gets to the part about the plane tickets to Paris, Captain Lance scrubs a hand over his face.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

Donna is more than a little taken aback. “What? My daughter--”

“This is going to take a little time to untangle, Ms. Smoak, and--”

“Please, call me Donna,” she interrupts.

Captain Lance gives a grudging nod. “Okay, Donna, then please call me Quentin. And let me buy you lunch so I can explain some of this.”

But Donna sits rigidly, arms crossed with sudden anger. “You know where my daughter is?” Even as she levels the accusation, she knows it’s not true. He wouldn’t have been so worried when he realized she was there about Felicity if he knew for sure where she was.

“No,” Quentin protests, lifting his hands to emphasize his innocence. “I don’t. I swear.” 

Donna simply lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow in disbelief. Because she is no fool -- Quentin knows _something_.

It doesn’t take very long for him to slump back in his seat a bit and sigh. “There’s some backstory. And my daughter may be able to shed some light on that.”

Donna shakes her head, confused. “Your daughter? Quentin, I’m not sure--?”

“My family has a history with the Queens,” he explains with a sigh. “And Felicity is something of a friend of mine. I think whatever’s going on, this place--” He waves a hand at the cops milling about the precinct outside of his office-- “isn’t going to be much help.”

Donna considers that for a long moment. She understands that some problems are best left to the cops, while others need a less... _constrained_ solution. Some of her best customers in Vegas are mobsters, and as much as she tries to skate around the edges of that world, she _understands_ it. And if her baby girl is in that kind of trouble? Donna will do what she needs to do to help. 

Going out for lunch grates against Donna’s nerves. After all, she’s here because _her daughter is in trouble_. But she’s pretty sure Quentin needs them to leave precinct before he can tell her exactly why the cops aren’t going to be of much help with this.

Plus, there’s nothing to keep her from coming straight _back_ to the police station if this lunch isn’t what Donna thinks it is. And no matter what else Quentin says, she can tell from the affection in his voice that he really does care about Felicity. Despite Donna’s checkered history with men, she finds herself trusting him.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Lunch.” She pushes herself upright and smooths down her dress. “But a _quick_ lunch.”

Quentin gives her a crooked grin, and God help her if he isn’t quite attractive when he smiles. “How do you feel about burgers?”

& & &

Donna’s not sure what she was expecting from lunch with Quentin Lance. But this... this _crazy_ story about vigilantes and assassins is _not_ it. This notion that her baby girl is on some sort of... secret _crime-fighting team_ with Oliver and John.

Quentin stopped talking several minutes ago. He’s letting her digest his insane explanations while he rather despondently eats a veggie burger with a side of rice pilaf. Donna’s cheeseburger cools on her plate, barely touched, because she’s still reeling, still sputtering partial sentences. There’s not much Felicity got from her, but talking to fill the silence? That’s all Donna.

Even when there’s nothing to say.

She’s trying to refute his story, trying to explain that there are no such things as _assassins_ who live in a big _group_ and hunt down people because of grudges. The idea is crazy. Though the longer she talks, the more this League of Assassins sounds like the Vegas mafia setup -- enforcers working for egomaniacal, selfish jerks who are in it for their own glorification. 

Maybe this League is really just a cartel with a stupid name.

“Do they deal drugs?” Donna wonders aloud, because somehow it’s easier to focus on the more fantastical elements than the idea that Felicity is willingly and repeatedly putting herself in danger. 

Quentin furrows his brow at her. “Huh?”

“Dad?” interrupts a tall, willowy beauty, who appears rather suddenly at their table. She looks at Donna quizzically, then turns back to Quentin.

“Laurel,” Quentin greets, half-standing and indicating that she should join them. He makes the introductions and Donna politely offers her hand.

She’s still not sure what’s going on, still not understanding what this Laurel has to do with anything, but whatever she has to say will probably make more sense than Quentin’s version.

“Ms. Smoak,” Laurel says, “I’m a friend of your daughter’s.”

“Please call me Donna.”

“Donna, then,” Laurel accepts with a nod and the hint of a smile. Her manner is direct, which Donna appreciates even more than she normally would, considering the current circumstances. Laurel holds her gaze. “Felicity is… indisposed right now, but if anyone can navigate a life on the run, it’s her.”

Donna feels the sudden sting of tears. “A life on the run,” she repeats, her voice broken. Because that fear has been underlying her every move since Felicity hung up on her -- that awful idea that something has driven her baby girl into such danger that she’s had to disappear.

Donna’s no stranger to being left behind. And she’d always worried that Felicity would forget her, that their contact would dwindle to occasional, hurried phone calls, or maybe Felicity sending texts. But this? The possibility that she won’t even be in contact with Felicity? It’s overwhelming, and she sniffles, ignoring the tears spilling onto her cheeks. 

Laurel turns wide eyes to her father. “I thought you said you _told_ her.”

Quentin sighs. “About their night jobs, yeah, and the League. We were getting to the rest.”

Donna slams a fist on the table and Quentin and Laurel jump. “Tell me the rest,” she demands, her tone steely and determined. “Right now.” Because she is done waiting, and she is _done_ not knowing whether her baby girl’s big, kind heart and her inherent desire to help other people has ended up putting her in danger. 

“Okay,” Laurel agrees. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know this is... a lot.”

“I’m still not sure I know all of it,” Quentin mutters, leaning back and crossing his arms. “So by all means.”

Laurel gives her father an annoyed look and then turns her attention back to Donna, her hands clasped on the table in front of her. “So he explained about the Arrow. About the team he works with,” Laurel begins, waiting for Donna’s nod to continue. “Felicity, she--” Laurel pauses, blinking twice while she searches for words. “She runs the base of operations -- the technology side of things.”

Donna nods, because that sounds like something Felicity would do. “So Oliver-- the team, they keep her safe?” she asks.

Laurel opens her mouth to answer, but Quentin speaks over his daughter. “They keep her about as safe as they can.”

Donna _does not_ like the sound of that. “So she’s _not_ safe.”

“Your daughter is a very stubborn woman,” Quentin answers, with admiration and exasperation in his tone. “It’s been my experience that she will put herself in harm’s way on occasion if she thinks it’ll help keep others safe.”

Blinking back another round of tears, Donna can’t find words to answer. She nods.

“Oliver and Diggle,” Laurel says, her tone soft and reassuring, “they’re very protective of her. But sometimes there are threats that-- that the regular channels of justice can’t handle.”

Quentin grumbles to himself, his mouth twisted in disapproval when Donna glances over at him. She understands his reaction, but Donna hasn’t always had the luxury of trusting the justice system. What Laurel is saying makes a certain kind of sense. “So you’re saying when these... _extra-dangerous things_ happen-- You’re saying Oliver and-- and _Felicity_ work together to-- to...” Donna sputters to a stop.

“There are more of--” Laurel pauses. “It’s more than just the two of them, but, yes. They step in when the police can’t confront a threat. It’s-- It’s very brave.” 

“Brave is another way of saying they take too many risks,” Donna murmurs. 

Quentin looks like he wants to agree with her, but Laurel tilts her chin up, and her tone brooks no argument when she says, “It’s worth the risk, what-- What they all do. Oliver was the original...” she hesitates, cutting her gaze to her father, then says “hero” very quietly.

Quentin again makes a little disapproving noise, but lets the two women talk without otherwise interrupting.

“But now something has happened,” Donna surmises, putting the pieces together. “Something they can’t handle, and they’re-- they’ve gone… underground?”

Laurel nods, her wide eyes sparkling with what could be tears. “I spoke to Oliver a few days ago, and he says they’re okay. They’re just lying low until they can figure out the best course of action.”

_Course of action_. That means the problem won’t be solved by time alone. That means the danger is anything but over. “Do--” Donna clears her throat. “Do they need help?”

Laurel seems surprised by the question. “I don’t think so,” she answers slowly. “At least not right now.”

Donna turns her gaze to the formica tabletop, tapping her perfectly manicured nails in a nervous rhythm as she turns this new information over in her mind, examining it for flaws, for opportunities. “They’re overseas somewhere, aren’t they?” she asks.

“I’m honestly not sure,” Laurel answers, “but I think so. It’s best for everyone if-- If those of us left behind don’t know exactly where they are.”

Quentin straightens up at that, his expression turning murderous. “Are you in danger?” he demands of his daughter, his voice probably too loud for their surroundings. A few heads turn their way, even as Laurel grips her father’s forearm in warming. His voice is only slightly less loud when he adds, “Is Donna?”

Laurel pats his arm. “Dad, you know the League. You know how they operate. I-- I can’t say for sure, but I’m not running.” That last bit sounds to Donna like a vow, and Laurel gives a short, determined nod when she says it.

Donna glances at Quentin, recognizing the parental anguish on his face. “Sweetheart, you know I can’t--” He breaks off, shaking his head wordlessly.

Laurel’s fingers tighten on his arm. “I promise you, Dad, I’m taking every precaution.” Then she checks her watch. “Listen, I have to get back to the office, but, Donna, please feel free to keep in touch.” She fishes a card out of her purse and hands it to Donna with a smile. 

The offer is unexpected, and it takes Donna a moment to react. Then she reaches out and captures Laurel’s hand in hers. “Can you-- If you talk to Oliver, or to my baby girl, could you please tell them I’ll help however I can?”

With a quick nod, Laurel says, “Of course.” She squeezes Donna’s hand, then releases her.

“Thank you,” Donna says quietly.

Laurel leans over and kisses her father’s cheek. “Bye, Dad.”

Quentin closes his eyes briefly. “Be careful, sweetheart.”

Gracefully, Laurel pushes herself upright and heads for the door. Donna can tell from the pained look on Quentin’s face that he can’t bear to watch her go. She wonders why that is, what happened to make him dread her departure so keenly. Donna usually watches Felicity leave with fond sadness, not this low-level dread that Quentin seems to be feeling.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Donna’s gaze on him and grimaces. “I had two daughters,” he manages. “Sara--”

“Oh, Quentin.” Donna reaches across the table and takes his hands in hers without really thinking about it. 

He grips her hand back firmly, nodding. “Yeah.” 

She can’t even imagine. Parents should always go before their children. It’s not fair -- losing this entire person you invested all of your love, and so much time and energy to raise. It’s not fair for the best part of yourself to leave this earth before you do. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice low and hopefully comforting.

And for a long moment, he holds her gaze along with her hand, his eyes intense and knowing. She’s quite skilled at projecting the image the people expect, at hiding the parts of herself that she doesn’t think are helpful in a given situation, so she’s not used to being... _seen_ like this. Because as he studies her, evaluates her, Donna could swear he’s trying his hardest to understand what makes her tick.

Aging blonde cocktail waitresses don’t get that a lot, because most people-- most _men_ don’t take women like her seriously. Donna’s not quite sure what to make of this careful focus. 

She’s not sure why she doesn’t find the attention uncomfortable.

Then Quentin clears his throat a little and straightens, but he doesn’t let go. “Look, I’m real fond of your daughter, Donna, and I’m pretty invested in making sure she stays safe.”

Donna finds herself smiling. “Do you have any ideas on how to do that?”

Quentin’s gaze skitters away from a moment, then comes back to her. “I’m not sure how to help your girl right now, but I know she wants _you_ safe. The League-- They’ve been known to...” He grimaces, “ _apply pressure_ using loved ones. I don’t know how long you’re gonna be here in Starling, but I think I’d feel better about things if you let me keep an eye on you.”

She’s not sure exactly what to make of his offer. Quentin has already basically admitted these assassin people were too much for his police to handle, so she’s doesn’t know how much protection he’d be if they showed up. Still, it would be nice to hear more about Felicity’s life in Starling. Her _secret_ life with Oliver and John, this dangerous life that Donna knows nothing about. 

Donna takes a deep breath and decides. “That sounds like it could be good for both of us,” she answers. “But can you help me try to get back in touch with Felicity?”

Quentin tightens his grip on her hand before easing back and releasing her. “Wouldn’t mind hearing her voice myself,” he agrees easily.

There’s still a knot of fear and dread in the pit of her stomach, but something about Quentin has soothed her immediate panic. Maybe it’s because she can see that he cares for her beautiful girl, too, or maybe it’s because they’re both worried about their beloved daughters, and they recognize kindred feelings in each other. 

Whatever it is, this is the first moment since she got Felicity’s confusing phone call that the fluttery panic beneath her ribs has eased, even a little.

So she folds her hands together on the table in front of her and tilts her head. “Well, Quentin, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

She’s gratified with he flushes a little and says, “I think it’s _friendship_.” He shrugs a bit bashfully. “The quote, I mean.”

Donna simply smiles at him. “I know.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Since this is a loosely told story that is really more like a series of vignettes in the same universe, *and* since I write them just as the mood strikes me, I leave the story marked 4/4 instead of 4/? -- but that doesn't mean I won't add more. Just that what's here is complete and can be read by WIP-phobes. Sorry for any confusion!


End file.
